


you've got my devotion

by skjei



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, They Love Each Other OK, and vice versa, basically patrick being rlly in love with jonny, just a lil bit of angst, kinda just porn with a lot of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26268847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skjei/pseuds/skjei
Summary: Jonny, with the left side of his mouth quirking up into a smirk. Jonny, and his year-round golden skin color despite the harsh Chicago winters. Jonny, with his strong shoulders and his toned abs and lemon shampoo smelling hair, soft.Jonny, the man that Patrick loves so, so much.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 32
Kudos: 163
Collections: 1988: Locked In





	you've got my devotion

**Author's Note:**

> hi! it's been a while! i hope you are well and staying safe throughout this crazy time. we got this :D
> 
> i'm really excited to post my first work in this pairing, and especially have it be for the 1988 quaranthon!! this fic has been my baby for the last few months, and i'm so happy i get to finally share it with you all now. 
> 
> i'd like to thank the mods for putting this together between the beautiful graphics on tumblr and the writing sprints for motivation! y'all are the best.
> 
> i'd also like to thank perri for constantly motivating me and hyping me up, along with proofreading it and giving me feedback. i love u beyond words and i'm so grateful for u :))
> 
> anyways, this is me getting emotional about pat and jonny through the eyes of patrick himself. i hope u enjoy<33 (title is from fine line by harry styles)
> 
> also- comments are highly appreciated, especially since this is my first fic in this pairing + first time writing 1988. ur comments keep me going :))

For Patrick, it’s easy to love Jonny.

It’s easy when Jonny ruffles his hair in the locker room, expression fond and heartwarming in a way that builds a warmth in Patrick’s chest. The touches that seem so simple yet set Patrick on fire, smile permanently etched on his face. On Jonny’s.

It’s easy after Patrick scores a goal, a particularly flashy one, maybe backhand top-shelf. The fans scream and Patrick feels nine years old again, adrenaline taking him over until he can barely feel. Jonny will skate over to him then, teeth visible in a wide grin, engulfing Patrick with open arms. Jonny’s bigger than Patrick, always has been, and they fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, Patrick safely tucked under Jonny’s arm. Jonny will shout, all endearing and excited, and it brews a storm in Patrick’s heart.

It’s easy when they’ve grown up together, breaking into the league together, the dynamic duo called in to rebirth Chicago hockey. Their seemingly opposite personalities drawing in fans of all ages, and invigorating the love for hockey in the Windy City. It’s easy when they're constantly being linked together: Kane and Toews, 88 and 19, the best duo in Chicago sports since Pippen and MJ. It’s easy when Jonny’s there every step of the way– the good, the bad, the ugly. 

It’s easy when they win their Stanley Cups, all three of them. When Patrick scores the overtime winner in 2010, tens of thousands of Flyers fans stunned as Patrick sails down the ice in celebration. When Jonny hugs him, tight and sincere, yelling praises into his ear. 

“You fuckin’ did it, Kaner!” Jonny cries, voice hoarse, fingers curled into his jersey as Patrick just smiles, high off the adrenaline.

When Jonny goes up to get his Conn Smythe, he locks eyes with him. Patrick holds his breath when Jonny skates over to him, finger pointed towards the logo on Patrick’s chest. Or his heart. Or just Patrick. 

In 2013, when Jonny has one of the biggest games of his career, and they’re down 2 late in the third but seventeen seconds pass and they’re winning their second Cup in four years. Patrick latches onto Jonny while Jonny’s hands roam over his arms and shoulders, eyes not maintaining contact with how high off the win he is. 

“I love you, Jonny,” Patrick shouts, and he’s sure mics will pick up his words, but he can’t seem to care. “Way to step up big!”

Patrick wins MVP, and Jonny’s there. He always has been. 

It’s easy when they win their third at home two years after, tens of thousands of Hawks fans chanting their names. Patrick scores late in the third, and Jonny’s not on the ice, but when Patrick takes his helmet off when he gets to the bench, Chelsea Dagger blaring through the speakers at the UC, Jonny ruffles his hair, yelling something Kaner can’t make out. They hold on, and for once, Patrick doesn’t mind the hundreds of pictures they take together with the Cup. Jonny’s got his arm around him in every single one.

There’s no question as to how easy it is for Patrick to love Jonny. It’s there, it’s been there, and it will always _be_ there, no matter how many points or years or Stanley Cups under their belts. It’s so easy now, looking back, as he and Jonny share an apartment all these years later. It was always so obvious, so apparent, Patrick isn’t sure why it took so long. 

But in retrospect, Patrick knows that, in the moment, it was not always easy to love Jonny. 

Not when Patrick shriveled under the pressure that was being a professional hockey player, when his parents had the highest of expectations, on and off the ice. Not when millions of Hawks fans were watching him, watching his every move. By the time he was 25, he felt like he could barely breathe.

Now, he lies next to Jonny. Patrick is propped up against a pillow, eyes dancing between the view of Chicago from the window to the left of their bed, to the naked back of Jonny’s body, face buried into his pillow. The room smells of cinnamon and sex, cinnamon from the stupid candles from Bed Bath & Beyond Jonny _insisted_ on purchasing. Beams of lighting reflect off of the buildings surrounding their own, gleaming into their room, onto Jonny’s exposed shoulder and up to his jaw. He looks so beautiful, like this. It’s times like these, still and raw, that Patrick cherishes the most, and that he questions how he got so lucky. He gets to _have_ this. To have Jonny. 

Flashbacks come from the night prior, Jonny’s lips anywhere and everywhere, fingers running down his spine prompting chills. Jonny’s fingers latched onto Patrick’s hair – soft brunette waves that Jonny _insists_ on growing out now, and Patrick can’t say he’s ever argued against it – as he works Jonny’s dick in his mouth, hot and relentless.

Patrick hums just thinking about it, watches as Jonny stirs beside him. Patrick turns, shifting to Jonny’s level. For a moment, Patrick lies there, nose inches away from the side of Jonny’s face. Jonny’s so peaceful, like this. 

Jonny rustles the sheets. “Brush your teeth, asshole,” he says, voice muffled by his pillow. Patrick takes that back. 

“Good morning to you too, Jesus,” Patrick laughs, chest shaking with it. He lets his finger trace the shell of Jonny’s ear, and Jonny turns toward Patrick. His face is still hidden for the most part, but he’s smiling, Patrick can tell.

“Keep complaining this much I won’t suck you off anymore,” Patrick adds, biting his lip to keep from forming a flirty grin. Jonny chuckles, more breath than anything else. He’s tired, Patrick can tell, but he emerges more and more from beneath the satin sheets until they pool around his hip bone and Patrick gets to admire Jonny. 

Jonny, with the left side of his mouth quirking up into a smirk. Jonny, and his year-round golden skin color despite the harsh Chicago winters. Jonny, with his strong shoulders and his toned abs and lemon shampoo smelling hair, soft. 

Jonny, the man that Patrick loves so, so much. 

The man he never _thought_ he could have. 

Patrick must be staring now because Jonny’s a bit flushed and shifts a bit. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he quips, and Patrick laughs, head tilting back.

Then Jonny is lifting himself up, up and over to Patrick. He kicks the covers off the both of them, and if Patrick thinks about chirping him for it, complaining, but decides against it, eyes glued onto Jonny. He climbs between Patrick’s legs, and Patrick props himself up with his elbows. They stare for a few moments, Jonny looking up behind his eyelashes, looking impossibly innocent, but he knows what he’s doing. Jonny traces his finger along Patrick’s hipbone, the crease bordering his thigh. Patrick shudders, shuts his eyes.

He opens them in time for when Jonny speaks. “G’na blow you,” he announces, leaving his hand on Patrick’s thigh for him to take. Patrick does, intertwining their fingers as best he can from the angle he’s at.

When Jonny lets his tongue trace the outside of Patrick’s dick, Patrick lets his mind wander. Inexplicably, he thinks of the first time he and Jonny had done this.

***

_It’s the night they win the cup in 2010, first one of the three, young and stupid and unsure of what the future would hold. They’re at some random bar downtown, and Patrick has two girls leaning on each of his shoulders. Jonny buys, like, four drinks for four different girls– not that Patrick was like. Counting. Or anything like that._

_Patrick watches how Jonny grimaces when a girl lets her hands wander. How he takes exasperated sips of his beer. How he gets up abruptly to use the bathroom, and how Patrick follows without a second thought._

_Jonny’s leaning against the sink, knuckles turned white from clutching the ceramic rim. He watches Patrick as he walks in, stands in front of him. They don’t say much, Patrick more intoxicated than not, afraid to say something wrong._

_Patrick walks close to Jonny so that their knees brush against each other. Patrick licks his lips, an unconscious motion, while Jonny stares at them. Focused, like he always is._

_“Peeks,” Jonny musters, voice jumping slightly like a question when Patrick steps closer, legs pressed against each other through their blue jeans._

_They are so close._

_Patrick lifts his hand from his side, only to drop it, not sure how to make the next move. Jonny’s hands are still gripping the counter, eyes wide and locked just below Patrick’s. With how fucking cocky Jonny always is – always_ has _been – Patrick should figure that this is more than just drunken behavior._

_“I don’t wanna pick up,” Patrick says before he can stop himself. He’s not sure if he even meant to say that, or if Jonny even understands. Jonny cocks his head ever so slightly, confused, waiting for Patrick to continue. Patrick lays his hand over Jonny’s on the counter, more so their fingers._

_“I don’t want them. Those girls,” he continues, referring to the two brunettes that were latched onto Patrick’s arms just minutes prior. And words fail him now, drunk, more than Patrick ever thinks they were capable of. Jonny’s looking at him– at his eyes– brown eyes lost yet so, so full._

_Patrick lays his other hand on the bulge in Jonny’s jeans, and Jonny gasps._

_“Patrick–” he musters, voice fraught and breathy. Patrick lets his hand add pressure, prompting Jonny to take shaky breaths. Patrick grabs him harder, anticipating a response. Jonny moans, and at that moment, all the blood rushes to Patrick’s dick._

_“I– Pat._ Patrick _, fuck. Someone might fucking_ see _, shit,” Jonny’s barely able to produce a sentence with all the pressure Patrick had put on his dick, even through layers of clothing. It’s barely a hand job, with pants zipped and all, but it had seemed like more, for Jonny and Patrick. It’s weeks, months, god damned_ years _of sexual tension, all spilling out into one moment, in the all too small bathroom after they became_ Stanley Cup champions. 

_In a blink, Patrick’s flipped around, pressed against the counter. In a heartbeat, Jonny, fly undone, is dropping to his knees._

_Patrick can’t contain the noise he makes when Jonny, clothed knees pressed against the blue tile, unzips his pants and yanks them down to his knees, underwear and all._

_“Let me do this,” Jonny says to no one in particular because Patrick isn’t listening. He’s obviously gotten a fucking blowjob before, but when Jonny finally makes contact with his lips on Patrick’s dick, Patrick is already a goner._

_At 21, it doesn’t take long for Patrick to get there, to_ really _get there. And it’s not like Jonny isn’t fucking helping._

 _Jonny’s persistent – like he always is under_ any _circumstances – on Patrick’s dick. He’s licking, kissing, sucking, and Patrick can’t keep up. After only a couple minutes, Patrick’s chasing an orgasm._

 _“Come on,” Jonny says, Patrick’s dick still in his fucking mouth, and Patrick can feel it. He feels it_ everywhere _. Patrick’s gasping, any ounce of embarrassment out the window. Patrick’s there, almost, when Jonny lets his hands roam, palming Patrick’s ass. That’s enough to send Patrick over the edge, letting go with a moan from the back of his throat, coming into Jonny’s mouth._

_It seemed like a revelation at the time. It never became a topic of discussion._

***  
  


Now, 10 years later, it’s almost all the same. No, neither Patrick nor Jonny have the same sex drives they had when they were 21, but it’s the same. In reality, it’s better, now that they’re no longer closed off from one another, no longer brimming with excruciating sexual tension. It’s just them, Patrick and Jonny, Kaner and Tazer. It always has been.

Now, Jonny squeezes his and Patrick’s fingers where they’re resting on Patrick’s thigh, as he moves his lips up the shaft so, so gentle. Jonny lets his free hand creep up Patrick’s leg, fingers dancing over soft, white skin. He feels so bare, so open, like this. But only Jonny can see him like this. It’s always only been Jonny.

When Jonny takes him into his mouth, Patrick groans, tilts his head back. He squeezes Jonny’s hand on his thigh, shutting his eyes tight. He thinks of Sochi, then.   
  


***

_It’s 2014, the year after their second cup, and another Olympic year where the U.S. gets knocked out by Canada – not actually, because the U.S. gets to still play for bronze, but they’re knocked out in Patrick's eyes– because Canada actually fucking_ sucks _._

_Most of the Americans are hanging out in the lobby. They’ve stopped feeling sorry for themselves for the most part with a few of them holding cocktails in their hands. The Canadians are without a doubt at some bar, picking up, doing shots, getting fucking wasted– as one would do when you beat your ultimate rival._

_Patrick_ hates _them for it, but he knew that if he was in their boat, he would be doing the same thing._

 _Patrick doesn’t hang out with the rest of his teammates, despite Kesler and Oshie’s literal_ bullying _. Instead, he’s in his room, under his sheets, peering through the window overlooking the Olympic village._

_God, why does he have to be so fucking pathetic?_

_It’s not that he’s that much of a sore loser, because he really isn’t– Patrick’s been raised on competitiveness his entire life, and he_ knows _that when someone wins, they win. There’s no fucking questioning about it. It’s just– Patrick doesn’t leave room for sympathy for himself. Never has. So it’s not so much that he’s sulking, because he_ isn’t _. It’s more so overthinking– another thing that’s followed Patrick through his adolescence– all of the things he could have changed, done better, done_ something _._

_Much to Patrick’s dismay, under the soft blankets on his bed, he thinks of Jonny._

_Jonny, who had tried to talk to Patrick on the handshake line, but Patrick couldn’t even look at him. Jonny, who hugged Sidney fucking Crosby after the final buzzer, grin plastered on his face. Jonny, who’s probably off in some random fucking bar doing God knows what. Getting drunk. Having fun. Celebrating Patrick’s_ defeat _._

_Secretly, he knows Jonny wouldn’t celebrate in that way. He might know, but it doesn’t stop him from laying it out as a possibility. Because what does he know?_

_It’s at this moment where Patrick feels his eyes prickle like they had the few hours since the final buzzer, but he’s alone this time. He’s able to_ finally _bury his face into a pillow and cry. And he knows– he knows he’s being dramatic, holding himself to an all too high standard. But that’s how Patrick was_ raised _. He’s always like that, from age 9 to age 18 to whatever age he’ll retire at._

_He’s on the verge of letting out a particularly larger sob when he hears a knock._

_“Peeks?” It’s muffled through the door._

_There’s only one person here that calls Patrick that._

_Patrick’s so close to just staying put, letting Jonny piss off to wherever he wants, until he loses interest in trying to sympathize with Patrick. But he gets up anyway, because Patrick loses all sense of control when it comes to Jonny._

_Patrick opens the door to Jonny, hair messy and imperfect with an impossible look on his face._

_Jonny opens his mouth to speak and Patrick turns away. Maybe Jonny_ does _speak, but Patrick doesn’t care to listen. He crawls into his bed again, while Jonny closes his door, chased after him, small yet quick footsteps._

 _“Pat,” Jonny says, not like a question at all, but like he’s prompting Patrick to speak up first. Patrick just looks at Jonny– he doesn’t have any Team Canada merchandise on, with that stupid fucking maple leaf, for which Patrick was grateful. His ugly plaid flannel that Patrick_ knows _that, once you get close enough, smells like his lavender detergent, open one button too much. His black jeans, tighter than jeans should be, if Patrick’s being honest._

_Nonetheless, it’s Jonny. Who’s team shut out Patrick’s._

_“What,” Patrick replies, voice all that muffled from his pillow. Jonny lets out an audible sigh and walks to the opposite side of Patrick’s bed. He sits down, and Patrick feels the sinking pressure of the mattress. Similar to how he had been feeling all damn_ day _._

_Jonny’s hand twitches next to where Patrick’s head lies on the pillow._

_“Come on, Pat,” Jonny says, so, so soft. It only makes Patrick melt into the sheets a little more, but his confusion doesn’t subside. Why the fuck did Jonny leave? To be with_ him _?_

_Patrick doesn’t respond. He feels fingers combing through his curls, then._

_“You can’t do this,” Jonny says, voice almost at a whisper. Patrick’s eyebrows furrow despite being constricted by the pillow. He feels Jonny curling in toward him until they lay side by side. This doesn’t feel like them._

_Patrick moves his head abruptly at that, Jonny pulling his hand back like it had been burned. Patrick’s eyes sting. “I can’t what? Be fucking upset? Jesus, Jonny, because if you were in_ my _shoes–”_

 _“No,_ no _, that’s not what I meant,” Jonny stutters, and Patrick feels the vibrations of his words against the bed that they share. “You just can’t– you can’t put it all on yourself, Peeks. I know that’s what you’re doing, that’s why I–”_

 _Patrick can tell that words fail Jonny, as he fidgets with the hair tie on his wrist, lost. “Look, Pat, I– you_ are _allowed to be upset. Obviously. But you’re not sad about losing, you’re beating yourself up over something you can’t control. You_ can’t _do that right now, okay?”_

 _Patrick looks at Jonny, where his head is down and eyes not quite meeting Patrick’s. His hair, grown out a bit too long and hanging over the top of his head. The way he can’t look at Patrick– Patrick can’t help but_ assume _that Jonny pities him._

_Patrick had always wondered if that’s the case. Yeah, yeah, yeah, Captain Serious, youngest Blackhawks captain, youngest Triple Gold Club member. Whatever. Patrick’s proud of him, obviously, but he can’t help but feel lesser under Jonny’s gaze. Feel like he’s constantly being overshadowed, where Jonny knows it, just never says anything just to make Patrick feel better. It was selfish, Patrick’s aware, but it’s never been something he had any control over. Just Jonny and his fucking dumbass country._

_“Oh yeah?” Patrick squeaks out, yet it comes out weak, and results in an arm from Jonny being thrown over his shoulders. It’s supposed to be a hug, awkward from the angle they’re at, but a hug nonetheless._

_It’s easy to crumble in Jonny’s arms. Before Patrick knows it, he’s restarting his crying session from earlier. He lets out a sob, trying to disguise it as a cough, but Jonny knows him better than anyone, and Patrick knows that. He’s pulled into Jonny’s arms before he can blink again. Jonny guides his head into his shoulder._

_“Fuck you,” Patrick musters, hiccupping his way through the words. Jonny props his chin on the top of Patrick’s curls._

_“Yeah, yeah,” Jonny answers, calm, like he always is. Nothing Patrick says can phase him. It was just the way Jonny’s wired._

_It’s a few minutes before Patrick catches his breath. Jonny’s rubbing circles against his back, holding Patrick like life depends on it. Maybe it does._

_“Why are you here?” Patrick asks eventually, both of them sitting up against the pillows, Patrick’s head leaning on Jonny’s shoulder while Jonny has an arm draped around Patrick, holding him in place. Jonny knocks their feet together, then. Squeezes his shoulder– touches that could set Patrick on fire, under any other circumstance. Maybe one that wasn’t post-mental breakdown._

_“‘Cause I care about you, Peeks,” Jonny says it so simply, like it’s second nature, but there’s no way it_ is _. Second nature for them is arguing over who got the remote, throwing empty water bottles at each others’ heads, taking too long in the shower so the other was left banging on the door. Actually human communication_ isn’t _._

_Patrick lets himself believe it. “Yeah?” he asks, voice cracking with it. His eyes are fighting off sleep, ready to fall at any given moment. So maybe he does, at least a little bit, while Jonny shifts to leave a kiss on Patrick’s temple._

_“Yeah,” Jonny whispers, lips brushing against the shell of Patrick’s ear._

  
***  
  


Now, six years later, Jonny works hard at Patrick’s dick, leaving Patrick gasping for air. 

Jonny makes a particularly loud slurping noise, and Patrick groans. “Fucking _fuck,_ Jonny,” Patrick manages, eyes fighting to stay open, body overwhelmed at the sensation of Jonny's lips over his dick. He wants to watch Jonny because he probably looks so good, but Patrick’s all too overwhelmed, just lets his head roll back into the pillow. 

Patrick can’t see much from his angle, including Jonny’s dick, where it’s pressed under Jonny’s body as he lies between Patrick’s spread legs, but he can imagine it, what it might look like. Precome spilling at the tip, red, _angry,_ longing to be touched. He can imagine what Jonny wants Patrick to do, how Jonny offers to blow Patrick more than Patrick offers to blow him, but can crumble under Patrick’s gaze as Patrick showers his dick with quick kisses, licks, touches. 

And that’s what Jonny’s doing to Patrick, now, the sun peeking over the highrises in the distance and into their apartment. Patrick tries to bite his lip to keep from speaking up too loud, and Jonny squeezes Patrick’s hand where they’re linked. 

In a brisk movement, Jonny pulls off, and Patrick makes a whimpering noise, about to protest when Jonny buries his face into the crook of Patrick’s neck. He brings his hand to Patrick’s dick, almost immediately continuing where he was before, and Patrick lets out a gasp. 

“Let me hear you,” Jonny mutters on Patrick’s damp skin, his neck tingling where Jonny’s lips move. Jonny doesn’t let up on the pressure on Patrick’s dick, Patrick letting out an uncontained moan when Jonny presses harder on the tip, causing Jonny’s hips to lurch into his side, dick pressed against the bone of Patrick’s hip. 

It’s one thing for Patrick to simply get off from Jonny's hand or blow job skills, but it’s another thing when Jonny’s _this_ turned on, just from Patrick moaning a little louder or bucking up into the palm of Jonny’s hand. 

And _god,_ it’s only a handjob, but it’s _Jonny,_ his big frame engulfing Patrick where he lays beside him, and Patrick is just so gone for him. Always has been.

***

_It’s raining in Chicago._

_It’s the day Patrick gets back from the All-Star Game in Tampa, so he should be thankful it’s not snowing. He’s walking through Millenium Park, which he wouldn’t normally do on any given day. But he decides why not, since it’s a rare occasion that Patrick has a simple off day in Chicago – no practice, no meetings, just the city._

_Patrick’s got his hoodie pulled over his head, hair tucked behind his covered ears. He’s got sunglasses on for the sole reason of not being recognized. There aren’t many people walking around Chicago in the rain now, but it’s something Patrick’s accustomed to doing, no matter the weather._

_The sun is shining behind the clouds, the sky all too bright for Patrick’s eyes, but it’s raining steadily, puddles forming between the cracks of the path. It drips off the Bean quickly, and it’s refreshing to walk by a tourist attraction with no tourists, Patrick will admit. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket for the fifth time as he steers his gaze away from the buildings and toward the lake, letting his body relax with a heavy sigh. He has no intent on answering it– he’s been surrounded by media and phones for the past four days, the last thing he wants to do is answer his phone._

_He thinks about he and Jonny’s calls,_ ~~_wonders if he’s the one lighting up his phone._ ~~

_Patrick finds a bench, secluded from the normal path. He should wipe it off, but he doesn’t, and it’s uncomfortably wet, but Patrick can’t seem to care. He’s weirdly at peace here, in a public park in Chicago, air wet with moisture and raindrops dripping off the trees and onto his hood. His hands are cracked and cold, buried in his sweatshirt pocket. From the corner of his eye, he sees a figure walking toward him, and in response, ducks his head and takes his hands out of his pockets, picking at the cuticles in hope that he goes unrecognized._

_He feels a hand on his shoulder, looks up, and he should’ve recognized the face from a mile away._

_“Welcome back,” Jonny says, lip curling up into a shy smile. Jonny’s got a beanie pulled over his ears and he’s wearing a heavy coat– something Patrick should’ve considered wearing– with one hand tucked into a pocket. Patrick gives him what he_ thinks _could be a smile, but he’s mostly confused as to how Jonny knew where to find him._

_“I– thanks, man,” Patrick musters, glancing around before looking back up to Jonny’s face. His hand is burning into Patrick’s shoulder. “How’d you know where to find me?”_

_At that, Jonny chuckles and removes his hand, and a voice inside Patrick is screaming at him to put it back. “I’m just that good,” Jonny replies, and Patrick rolls his eyes playfully before meeting Jonny’s again._

_Something in Jonny’s eyes changes, then. It’s not the shiny, squinty look they get when he smiles. It’s not the fond look that Sharpy endlessly chirps him for. It’s lost, uncertain, all of the wrong things when it comes to Jonny._

_Patrick opens his mouth to speak to ask him what’s wrong when Jonny cuts him off. “I need to talk to you,” he blurts out, sounding far more certain than what’s written on his face. Patrick glances around the park; rain dripping off the sides of buildings, few umbrellas coasting Michigan Avenue, bare trees swaying as the wind picks up. Jonny’s still waiting._

_“Sure,” Patrick says, but his voice curls up like it’s a question, and all of a sudden he’s sweating more than he’d like to on a cold January day in Chicago, and god, this can’t be good. Quickly, Patrick plays out scenarios in his head. It could be to talk problems with the team, because right now they're dropping out of the playoff picture and fast, which is unfamiliar territory, although Jonny never quite got so nervous talking about the Hawks’ seasons. Really, it could be anything, but Patrick’s chest drops when he remembers what happened the night of the All-Star Game. Where Jonny had called and Patrick was exhausted, and Jonny’s voice sounded particularly raspy (sexy) and it was no time before he was palming his dick, still on the line, listening to Jonny talk nonsense, until Jonny joined him_ too, _and they were both coming in a matter of minutes. Patrick figures that’s what’s on Jonny’s mind, and_ that’s _what scares him._

 _Jonny holds out his hand for Patrick to get off the bench, which Patrick takes, and Jonny doesn’t let go. He links his fingers with Patrick’s and Patrick takes it, moment fraught with meaning. Jonny leads them to wherever he wants to talk to Patrick–preferably in a more secluded spot, where they’re less likely to be identified as Chicago hockey stars–and their arms are brushing against each other’s, close, like if they were to be farther apart nothing would be more obvious. Their steps are in sync when Jonny guides Patrick to a spot between bushes aside from the fountain, stepping in front of Patrick’s line of sight, hand still enclosed with Patrick’s._

_So Patrick waits, waits, waits, while Jonny seems to be mustering up whatever he wants to say. The anticipation is killing Patrick from the inside out, because their whole friendship could be at stake by just a few sentences. Jonny opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, and meets Patrick’s eyes. That’s what almost kills Patrick: the dead seriousness in his eyes, like this is killing him_ too, _like Jonny can’t handle what this moment could mean for both of them._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Patrick,” he says suddenly, soft, voice wavering the slightest bit before Jonny clears his throat. Patrick is still. Jonny is shifting uncomfortably._

_“God, what am I doing,” Jonny chuckles, lightening the mood, rubbing his eyes with his free hand and Patrick feels the corner of his lips quirk upward. This is Jonny, in the rain, fingers intertwined with Patrick’s. It feels like him._

_“I might– I could… Fuck, Pat, I just–” Jonny looks away while Patrick stares into his eyes, impatient for what could be the worst. Funny how it works out like that._

_When Jonny meets Patrick’s eyes again, he’s dead serious. “I love you,” he says, and that’s when Patrick loses the ability to breathe. He blinks once, twice, and it’s still fucking raining and then Jonny’s saying it again:_

_“Jesus Christ, Pat, I love you, and you might not–”_

_“Jonny,” Patrick cuts him off, squeezing Jonny’s hand, unable to say anything else and Jonny shakes his head._

_“No, let me– let me talk, I need to say this,” Jonny says, desperate. Patrick shuts his mouth at that, and Jonny’s squeezing Patrick’s hand so fucking hard._

_“When we won the cup back in 2010– after, at the bar,” Jonny starts, sentences fragmented but understood by Patrick easily. “When we, you know… I loved you then, and I love you now, and I’ve been good for_ so long, _Pat, and recently I just couldn’t– I couldn’t take it because you seemed like you loved me back and I just–”_

_“Jonny,” Patrick interrupts him once more, stern, and Jonny’s mouth snaps shut. Patrick must be smiling, because Jonny’s worried look on his face softens, and his mouth quips up into a smile._

_Patrick lets his other hand creep up until it rests on Jonny’s cheek, and Jonny lets out a breath, and Patrick doesn’t miss how Jonny leans into it._

_It’s pouring when Patrick kisses Jonny, sweet and full, and Jonny kisses back, and_ god, _they’ve both been so damn_ stupid _for so_ long.

_It should’ve been obvious. It was so fucking obvious._

_But the way Jonny kisses Patrick, like every bit of him needs it, Patrick figures the wait was worth it, if he gets to kiss Jonny like this._

_Words have never been Patrick’s strong suit, so he kisses Jonny to say, “I love you, too.”_

_They pull away after what seems like hours. Jonny’s inhales are unsteady and Patrick can feel warm breath hitting his cheeks as Jonny exhales from where he’s standing so close to Patrick’s face. Jonny’s lip turns upward and Patrick lets his thumb wander to the small dimple in Jonny’s cheek._

_“I can’t believe you just confessed your love for me in the rain,” Patrick says after a moment, prompting a playful eye roll from Jonny. He strokes the soft skin of Jonny’s cheek, damp from the rain around them._

_“And I can’t believe you kissed me in the rain after I confessed my love for you,” Jonny replies, eyes fond and focused dead on Patrick’s. Patrick chuckles easily, traces his thumb over Jonny’s bottom lip, pink and swollen._

_“Well believe it, because I’m about to do it again,” Patrick pulls Jonny’s face closer to his own and they’re kissing again, just as warm as before. It’s almost instinctual for Patrick, licking the noises out of Jonny’s mouth, dragging his teeth over the inside of Jonny’s lip._

_Jonny cracks a grin once they pull apart again, and then laughs, more breath than anything else, and Patrick quirks an eyebrow._

_“Never want you to stop doing that,” Jonny admits, and at that Patrick laughs, because he couldn’t agree more._

_***_

“Don’t stop,” Patrick grunts, feeling Jonny nod where his face is tucked into Patrick’s neck, gently biting the soft skin there. Jonny’s relentless, fisting Patrick’s dick like it’s his one mission to get Patrick all the way there. Maybe it is. Jonny has always been one to put his mind to something and hold himself to it.

“Come on, baby,” Jonny purrs into damp skin, and that goes straight to Patrick’s dick where Patrick shudders, bucking up into Jonny’s hand feverishly. They get into a rhythm, then, Jonny whispering praise into Patrick’s skin and Patrick leaning into contact. It will never not astonish Patrick, the way that Jonny is able to set him on fire with just a few words and touches. Patrick never thought he could be so gone for someone. He’s so _easy_ for Jonny – he'll be the first to admit. 

Jonny bites on Patrick's skin, harder this time – possibly hard enough to leave a mark – and Patrick lets out a whine at the top of his throat. 

“Fuck, Jonny– gonna come,” Patrick’s eyes are squeezed shut as he stumbles through his words, feeling Jonny’s teeth and tongue persistent on his skin. Jonny works his hand harder, pressuring the tip, and Jonny instantaneously grinds against Patrick’s hip – all too close to his ass – and that’s enough to send Patrick over the edge. 

He comes on his and Jonny’s stomachs with a groan, and he lies there for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. He hears Jonny mumble something along the lines of “so good for me, Peeks.” The sun is still shining, and the sheets are soiled with Patrick’s come, but he can’t seem to care right now, with the way Jonny is making tiny hitching motions into his hip. They don’t go unignored, as Patrick turns in toward Jonny. Jonny’s staring into Patrick’s eyes, and he’s _so_ hard, and if Patrick were 20 again he’d be hardening up again, but his sex drive isn’t nearly as up to speed as it once was. Nonetheless, he’s going to give Jonny what he deserves.

It must take longer than Patrick thinks to completely recover from his orgasm, because Jonny is pulling on his arm, impatient, and he even fucking _whines._ Patrick is flushed– partly from his orgasm, partly from how fucking hot Jonny is right now, desperate for friction.

“Sh, babe, I got you,” Patrick mumbles and immediately gets his hand on Jonny’s dick and Jonny moans, higher-pitched than anything he normally does this early in the morning. It’s messy, it’s nowhere close to perfect, but Jonny is arching into Patrick’s hand faster and faster, and it really only takes a few strokes before Jonny is crying out Patrick’s name and coming onto his and Patrick’s stomachs. Jonny finishes and Patrick drops his head next to Jonny’s, noses touching with the side of their faces resting on the same pillow.

Jonny’s breathing starts to slow down after a few minutes, as they lay together in silence, taking in each other’s presence. It’s not often they get days like this in Chicago– it’s their bye-week, but Jonny and Patrick chose not to fly out anywhere tropical, mostly because it’s their first bye-week in their new apartment. _Their_ apartment– not Jonny staying over at Patrick’s for two weeks straight or vice versa– it’s _theirs._

Jonny gets up before Patrick, provoking a whine from him, and Jonny flicks him on the thigh.

“I’m showering,” Jonny laughs. Patrick doesn’t move from where he’s laying on the bed, staring up at Jonny with wide eyes. “Maybe you should too, Peeks.” 

Jonny leans on the doorframe of their bedroom, as Pat sits up, cringing at the mess they’ve made on the bed, and how they’re going to have to clean everything sooner rather than later. Jonny’s got his arms crossed, waiting for something. 

“M’only showering if it’s with you,” Patrick mumbles, combing his fingers through his curls, frizzy from the rubbing against the pillow. Jonny laughs again, coming up from his stomach and louder than how he had before. 

“Wouldn’t be opposed to that, I guess,” Jonny replies, and Patrick flips him off.

The water is hot, running down Patrick’s front, as Jonny washes lavender shampoo into Patrick’s curls, and Patrick’s sure that this is too good to be true. He makes sure to turn around to kiss Jonny whenever he feels he’s giving too little, and Jonny will take it every time, but only gives him more.  
  
  


Later, Patrick emerges from the bathroom after putting in the curl product Jonny bought for him, as Jonny is flipping pancakes on the griddle. And hey– they may be pretty fucking dense, but this pancake griddle may have been their best investment for the whole apartment, Patrick thinks. 

Patrick can smell chocolate, thinks about how Jonny definitely put chocolate chips in them, despite his demise for sugar. He watches Jonny from behind, watches where his green t-shirt spills over his denim-clad waist, as he stares out the kitchen window while the pancakes cook on one side. 

Patrick seizes the opportunity and makes his way over to Jonny, wrapping his arms around his waist and hugging him from behind, burying his nose into Jonny’s neck. He inhales, smelling the herbal soap he bought from the farmer’s market in the south loop, and the unmistakable scent of just _Jonny_ that can get Patrick dizzy every single time.

“Hey,” Jonny speaks up over the sizzling of the batter, voice cracking slightly with what Patrick believes is exhaustion (Pat doesn’t blame him, they woke up all too early for handjobs). Patrick tightens his grip around Jonny and forgets to say anything. 

“Everything okay, Peeks?” Jonny asks after a few moments, and Patrick nods into his neck for a lack of better words. He should say something, probably could if he put his mind to it, but he’d much rather take in the scent of the brewing coffee and the subconscious drumming of Jonny’s fingers while he waits to flip the pancakes. 

“Good,” Jonny sighs, smile hinting at his voice although Patrick can’t see from his angle, and yeah. They’re good. 

Pancakes are done five minutes later, and they sit across from each other at the kitchen island, using the new placemats that Jonny’s mom sent them. Patrick’s hungrier than expected, shoveling the chocolaty breakfast into his mouth quickly, stopping abruptly in his tracks when he sees the look Jonny’s giving him, part teasing, part disgusted yet part fond, and Patrick just wants to lean over the counter and kiss him, but he settles for a chirp. 

“What? Superstars gotta eat too!” Patrick says through a full mouth, waving his fork accusingly. Jonny laughs then, shaking with it and eyes lit up. Patrick stares. 

“Yeah, sure,” Jonny’s grinning through his words, forking a normal-sized bite into his mouth while keeping his eyes fixated on Patrick, and _god,_ he even teases when he eats fucking _chocolate chip pancakes._ Patrick shouldn’t be surprised.

They eat somewhat quietly after that, but it’s a nice silence, taking in the warm aroma of the apartment, perfect for the morning they’re having. It almost seems too domestic, too fantastic for anything Patrick’s ever imagined, and he almost wants to pinch himself, because he still can’t fathom how he got this. He looks to his left and sees the wall of pictures, a few of the team surrounding 16x20 of the two of them, holding each other so tightly with the Cup back in 2015. He looks to his right and sees their shoes sitting by the door, and Pat can’t help but remember how he felt when there were other shoes next to Jonny’s at his previous apartment, wishing so deeply that women's boots could be replaced with his sneakers, imagining the type of welcome mat the lay beside.

It’s like Patrick’s been drawing out this fantasy in his head his entire life, and all of a sudden he’s living it.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Jonny interrupts Patrick’s thoughts, and Patrick turns his head, where Jonny’s got his chin in his hands and he’s staring at Patrick, fond and with so much interest. Patrick bites his lip to keep from grinning. He hops off the diner stool and detours straight over to Jonny, where his eyes follow Patrick around the island. Patrick leans on the counter, looking up at Jonny and he can’t help but feel smaller under Jonny’s gaze, sunlight hitting his cheekbones and t-shirt hanging low with how it’s been dried one too many times. 

“You,” Patrick answers simply, raising his eyebrows, waiting for Jonny to retort. He does, hopping off the stool and lifting Patrick’s chin up with his hand, scanning Patrick’s features. The moment feels elongated, Jonny’s chest rising and falling with each breath, and Patrick just waiting for whatever comes next. 

What comes next is Jonny’s lips on his own, warm and less feverish than before, licking all of the words Patrick could say out of his mouth. A hand moves into Patrick’s curls and Patrick moves to Jonny’s side, grabbing at the soft cotton. 

When they pull apart they’re less breathless than before, and Jonny swings Patrick around and pulls him into his chest, perching his chin onto the top of Patrick’s head. Patrick leans into it, closes his eyes.

“Love you,” Patrick says without thinking, maybe easier that he doesn’t have the pressure of Jonny’s fond face in front of him. He feels Jonny tighten his grip ever so slightly.

“Good thing, because I love you more,” Jonny replies in a heartbeat, and Patrick melts at the reassurance in his tone. See, Patrick’s been in love with Jonny for as long as he’s been pulling a Hawks sweater over his head, but an infinite amount of time can pass before he takes this for granted. 

“Good thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> come scream about 1988 with me on [tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kanertazer)


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